I'm Giving Up on You
by set my ships to sea
Summary: During times of tragedy or uncertainty, they were there for each other, ready to help the other. They loved each other dearly, but neither one of them was brave enough to admit it. Sadly, love can only withstand so much. When things start to change, reality sets in, and they both decide that the only way move forward is to say goodbye. {{ two-shot }}
1. Haymitch's letter to Effie

**A/N:** So, I've been working on part one of this two-shot for a little over a week. I really like the Hayffie pair, and I really wanted to write something based around them. Recently I started listening to the song _Say Something_ by A Little Big World, and as I fell in love with the song, I started to get inspired (especially by the verse '_And I will swallow my pride / You're the one that I love / And I'm saying goodbye_.') . I can't see Effie or Haymitch ever telling each other face-to-face how they feel, and as the rebellion starts, I don't think Effie could so easily pick Haymitch over the Capitol. After all, she's only know that for her entire life-she wouldn't just abandon everything because suddenly things are going wrong. So, what if that were the deal breaker for Haymitch? This is my take on what Haymitch would say to Effie as he was saying goodbye to her. It was meant to be really raw and it was sort of a new writing-style idea for me, so it might be pretty bad. Not gonna lie, I started to tear up part way through writing this.

Anyways, I've blabbed on long enough, so go ahead and read the story. Hope you enjoy Haymitch's part to this two-shot.

**_Disclaimer:_** I do not own the Hunger Games or any of it's characters. Everything belongs to the fabulous Suzanne Collins.

**x-x-x**

The heavy stench of booze clung to him as he hunched over the wooden table. There was a pad of paper resting in front of him, with a handful of pens scattered around it. Here and there, an ink-stained sheet was crumpled and torn, tossed to the side and long forgotten. Obviously—judging from the number of whiskey bottles and the look of sheer frustration etched on his face—Haymitch had been writing for quite a while. It didn't seem to be going well, though.

Gripping the nearest bottle of liquor firmly, the former victor brought it to his lips and tilted his head back, taking a long swig. He let out a satisfied grunt as the liquid burned its way down his throat; he was already well beyond the point of being drunk, but the slight buzz still thrilled him. Reaching out with his free hand, he grabbed a pen and pulled the paper close to him. After another mouthful of booze, Haymitch leaned forward, beginning to write once more.

'Dear, sweet Effie,

Obviously, as you can probably tell, I am drunk—big surprise there, huh? You're probably thinking to yourself that I'm always drunk and this time can't be any different, but let me tell you—I am especially intoxicated right now. I had to be if I was going to write you this letter.

Do you remember the first time we met, Effie? It was just a few months after I won the Hunger Games—I was on the Victory Tour, and I remember being pissed at the world. I was so messed up back then. I never slept because the nightmares were too hard; my heart ached as I grieved over Maysilee—it was my fault she died, you know—and I'd just been introduced to booze, my lovely savior. I was wallowing in my own misery, throwing myself a pity party, when you waltzed up and introduced yourself. I swear, it was like you were glowing—I wasn't even drunk when you came over, because it was seven in the morning and I was nursing a hangover—you were just honestly glowing. I thought I hated the Capitol and everything it created, but God, I couldn't hate you, Effie.

As much as I tried not to, I fell for you. I thought I knew what love was when I met Maysilee, but I hadn't even begun to scratch the surface with her. I'd thought that she had my entire heart and soul, but when you came into my life, I discovered that she had only a sliver of them; you stole the rest when you first said my name. From that day on I was hooked—I watched all the Capitol reports, even though I still despised everything they believed in. The only thing I didn't hate was you, and I hated myself for _not_ hating you because you were one of _them_. They were the reason I was alone and afraid and damaged beyond repair—and you loved them; you loved being in the Capitol, dressed in those silly outfits, eating platefuls of that delicious food only to puke it out to consume more. I despised anything that had to do with them, but I never hated you—no, I loved you, and I think that's where I went wrong.

When you became the escort for District 12, I was overjoyed. You'd been the only thing on my mind for years, and finally you were here—the circumstances sucked, honestly, but your presence made them a little more bearable. But I never planned on becoming attached to those first few kids. I hadn't had a mentor when I was reaped; no one ever told me how hard it would be to watch those tributes die. I watched helplessly that first year as the girl was killed first, followed by the boy just a few days later. Suddenly all the horrors of the Games came back, and to numb to pain, I drank and I drank, to the point where I couldn't even function properly. Year after year it happened, and while you tried your best to ease the blow of defeat and loss, you never really understood what I was going through. Honestly, the more you tried to help, the more I wanted to scream at you and pull out my hair. Still, you kept trying and I kept getting drunk, until eventually you realized I was too far gone to be helped.

After that everything between us was brief and tense and filled with anger. I was still fuming about you pretending to know what it felt like, of you pretending to love those kids as they went into the arena, when we both knew you loved the Capitol far more and this was just another routine process. Most of all I hated that you just _stopped_. You stopped talking to me, aside from the rare curt comment or question about our tributes. You stopped trying to make the pain go away, and you quit tethering me to the real world. God, I hated everything that you _did_ do and everything you _didn't_; what was worse was the fact that I hated _hating_ you. Whenever you ignored me, I would just go to my room and slip into a drunken daze, thinking back to when you would do nothing but talk to me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't be mad at you.

Years passed and I became known as the 'alcoholic of District 12.' I was the biggest embarrassment; I was a sorry excuse for a victor, and everyone knew it. You did, too, Effie; I saw it in your eyes each Reaping day. Each fleeting glance in my direction was filled with pity and disappointment—God, it was awful. Eventually I just gave up. I didn't just try to drown out all the death and terrible things from my past—I tried to drown out you, too.

But then Peeta and Katniss came along, and things changed—slowly, maybe, but they definitely changed. They were different from the others—they had an actual standing chance of winning the Games; I knew it as soon as Katniss tried to stab me with a butter knife. You knew it, too; you cared more for them than you did the others. After they both won, you opened up more. You started to tether me to the real world again, giving me a reason to keep fighting. Sure, I kept drinking, but I had limits now. Everything was looking so much brighter—we were on the mend, and somehow I managed to keep not one but _two_ victors alive. But good things don't last long, especially when the Capitol gets their hands on them.

The 75th Hunger Games were nothing to celebrate. Somewhere in President Snow's twisted mind, drawing that year's victors from the previous surviving ones seemed like a brilliant idea. After hearing this, my heart sunk—it was my job to keep those kids safe. I managed to get them out of the arena; they were supposed to be allowed to live out the rest of their lives, no strings attached. Now they had to go back to the arena, and it was my fault because I got them out of the last one. I forgot all about limits and staying sane and instead focused on going through the usual pre-Reaping motions as drunk as I possibly could be. All I thought about was me—about how emotionally scarring losing those kids would be; about how hard I fought to get out of the Games the first time, just so I could possibly be thrown back in. Not once did I ever think of anyone else—even when Katniss came and talked me into keeping Peeta alive, I was only partially thinking of them. No, I only realized it after you drew and called my name.

Your voice quivered at the beginning—I don't think many people noticed, but I did. I also noticed the way you sped through my name, like if you lingered on it too long it would bite you. At the end of it, you smiled an empty smile, glancing my way. It was only a second before Peeta turned and volunteered. Then your eyes were filled with grief for another reason—I knew you loved them, but maybe you were sad about what this would do to me? Or maybe to us? I probably won't ever know the answer, but it doesn't really matter anymore.

It's just… I don't know how things went so wrong. This time the Games were different; the main goal wasn't to instill fear in everyone—no, it was to prove to them that rebelling would only cause more death. President Snow wanted to kill Katniss before the 75th Games were planned, Effie. You probably know that by now, though—I bet all hell's breaking loose in the Capitol, what with the Mockingjay suddenly gone and the Games somehow destroyed. I would love to see how President Snow's dealing with this one. I just hope this made you understand why we did what we did; why I asked you to throw everything away for some reckless, unbelievable plan. It was to help everyone, not just us.

All I wanted to do was keep you safe, Effie, but you refused to help get them out; of course I was only brainstorming back then and didn't have a plan. I knew after that, though, that I could never tell you what was really going to happen. Despite your hatred for the Capitol, you were still too invested in them; no matter how much you deny it, some part of you still wanted to be a part of it all.

That's why I'm writing this letter, Eff. I loved you—I _still_ love you. I love your crazy outfits and your sickeningly optimistic outlook on every situation. I love the amount of passion you put into your job, and the strength you find each year as you somehow do it all over again. Every little odd quirk or unique quality about you is something I adore, but none of that can change the truth.

You don't love me back.

Sure, maybe we were friends along the way, but we were nothing more than that. The way I feel about you… well, that's the way you feel about the Capitol, no matter how much harm they've done. I want this rebellion—no, I _need_ this rebellion. I need payback; I need them to feel what every damn District feels each year. I need them to feel _scared_. You, though, Effie… You just want to keep things the same. You never knew anything other than the simplicity and wealth of the Capitol. And that's what drove us apart—as friends, as possible lovers, and as people.

Effie, the whole point of this letter was simple. I'm… God, it's hard to say it. I'm still crazy about you, Eff, but I can't pretend everything's fine and trick myself into thinking that there's any chance a wealthy, gorgeous girl like you would ever be interested in a drunk and broken loser like me. I've got to finally man up and admit to myself that it'll never happen, and I've got to move on. So, I'm giving up on the dream of _us_, but I'm also giving up on _you_.

I'm so sorry, Effie. I really hoped something would have happened between us, but honestly, who was I kidding? I just hope your safe and you can move on.

Sincerely,

Haymitch Abernathy, former District 12 victor and mentor.'

There was a pause as he finished the letter, folding it neatly and tucking it shakily into an envelope. His hair fell into his eyes as he reached over and grabbed a half-finished bottle of liquor and began to guzzle it down. To anyone who briefly glanced over him, it looked like Haymitch was just being his usual self—getting drunk in the wee hours of the morning and sulking all alone. But if someone took a closer look, they'd notice the slight tremble in his movements; the damp tear tracks on his cheeks; and the anger in his eyes as he clenched his jaw.

Haymitch was safe and breathing, but he was far from being okay.


	2. Effie's letter to Haymitch

**A/N:** Honestly I didn't think I'd be updating so soon. It took me over a week to write Haymitch's part, but I was so invested in Effie's that it took me, like, six or seven hours at the most? I just really wanted to finish it, and I ended up really liking it. Not gonna lie, though-it was hard writing her part. I started off having a rough idea of how I wanted her to be-drunk and alone, writing her letter to Haymitch in a similar fashion as he had-but then I remembered she'd be taken prisoner during Catching Fire, so I had to scrape my near-finished one-shot ): But, I must say, this one turned out much better than the other one would have.

Anyways, without further ado, enjoy Effie's half to this two-shot.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I still don't own these characters from the Hunger Games, or anything involved in it (sadly ): ). It's all owned by Suzanne Collins.

**x-x-x**

A tremble tore through her body as she broke out into another bout of coughs; she just barely managed to catch her breath as the fit ended. Turning her back to the metal door and the armed guard, Effie brought her knees to her chest, hugging them. It had been days—possibly even weeks; time was too loose of a concept around here—since she'd been anywhere but in this cell. Her body physically ached from lack of sleep and food, and it was becoming clear that she was getting sick. Still, her sore and battered figure didn't compare to the dull and consistent pain that throbbed in her shattered heart.

Glancing back, the former escort watched carefully as her guard glanced down at his wrist. After a second, he pressed a button on the side of his helmet and murmured a few incoherent, muffled words before straightening up and turning. He didn't so much as glance in her direction as he marched down the hall and out of view. Waiting for a heartbeat, Effie carefully uncurled her stiff limbs, unsteadily getting to her feet and letting out a small breath. Checking to make sure no more guards were coming—which they weren't because she was hardly a violent criminal that needed constant watching—she kneeled down in front of her bed and pulled out a few loose sheets of paper and a pencil. Any sort of writing materials were hard to come by in the Capitol's prison, but she had a few people in here who were willing to help her, for which she was grateful.

Settling down onto the cold, white concrete floor, Effie pressed her back firmly against her stainless steel bed, leaning against it. She spent a moment making a neat pile with the papers before she hunched over, gripping the pencil tightly in her hand, and began to write.

'My dearest Haymitch,

I hope you're okay and you're safe. I know it was you who broke the arena—I honestly have no idea how you managed to do so, but I have no doubt it was you. Whether you made it out alive and okay, though… well, I just don't know. I pray you got them both out and you got far, far away from this place. It's not the same anymore, Haymitch; chaos broke out the moment the Games went dark. Panem isn't a place of beauty anymore; it's just a place of wars and deaths and pain and suffering. God, Haymitch, there's too much suffering; I'm not even talking about the Districts and Capitol anymore—there's too much suffering going on inside of _me_. I'm trapped inside a cell, and I know I'm never going to leave it—I'm dying and I know it, and I don't even care anymore. All I care about is you, and all I can think about is you. Your face paints the inside of my eyelids each time I blink, and fills my mind and dreams each day. Your voice is the only thing keeping me sane right now, whispering to me softly. I've gone crazy, Haymitch, and I'm scared, and I need you. But you're not here and it's all my fault.

I was going to come with you, you know. After you asked me to help you the night before the Games started, and you stormed off after I said no; I spent a long while thinking about it. I knew what you thought, that I was choosing the Capitol over you, even after all they'd done. And I guess you were right, Mitch, because I did choose them, just not because I loved them more. Tell me, Haymitch, did you ever think about what would have happened had I helped? Because I did constantly; it was all I could think about, day and night. I really did love those kids, and when they were forced back into the Games I wanted to scream. They were the first ones to stay alive; they were in love and deserved to live out the rest of their lives together, not to be thrown back into an arena to possibly lose each other. No, it wasn't fair, and that was one of the reasons I wanted to help—one of the things that gave me enough courage to ask you if I could help. I knew getting involved would put more risk on all of us; the Capitol watched everyone in it closely, like a hawk watching a field mouse before striking. I didn't want to get tangled into this mess because I could have been the reason it went wrong, but I just couldn't stay away. What you were doing was secretive and dangerous, and it just made me want you more; just the thought of running away with you and escaping everything made my body thrum with an urgent sense of longing. I _needed _to be with you, no matter how unsafe it was. You made up my mind, Mitch; honestly, I think it was made up right from the beginning, but I was just too narrow-minded to notice.

I went to find you the night before everything happened. I was so nervous—almost as nervous as I was the first day I talked to you. Do you remember that day? It was your second day at the Capitol; you'd already visited all the other Districts, and this was your last stop before you were sent back to District 12. I was terrified to talk to you—I watched you during the Games and every interview you were in after, and you just seemed so much older and more mature than I was. All I kept telling myself was that I'd just make a fool of myself and you'd think I was stupid. It took an entire day to work up enough nerve to just say hi, and of course when I did work up enough courage it was at seven in the morning. Still, you opened the door when I knocked; I knew you had been sleeping off the drinks from the night before, and I felt awful for waking you up, but once I saw you standing in the doorway, my mind was consumed with the pressing need to know you. Like, actually know you—what you liked, what you disliked; every little detail was what my brain craved. For the rest of your stay I refused to leave you alone—I wonder if that ever annoyed you? I never asked. God, I hope it didn't. Maybe that's why you dislike me so much, Haymitch; maybe all you saw when you looked at me was a pesky little sixteen-year-old who never left you alone. You probably did, which is horrible.

I'm getting off track, though, aren't I? It's just so easy to do when I talk about you. My mind wanders a thousand different directions, digging up memories and creating fantasies. Anyways, as I was saying, I planned on telling you that night. As hesitant and unwilling as I was, I was going to warn you about how risky this partnership would be—maybe that would have been a deal breaker, but I had to be honest with you. I couldn't lie to you—I loved you too much to do that. If you did agree to it, I knew you'd see me only as a beneficial acquaintance—if even that—and nothing more. It hurt to think that I would mean little to you, but it was better than nothing; at least I'd be with you, right?

I hadn't expected you to say no, though. Why did you say no, Haymitch? Had I really messed up that bad? I thought you'd still want me to at least be there—I'd have inside connections; didn't you want that? Obviously not, because I hardly managed to say that I changed my mind before you turned and stormed off, leaving me alone by the bar. I didn't know what to do, Mitch. I had it all planned out—we'd leave this place together, and maybe,_ just maybe_, you'd develop feelings for me, too. But you turned me down, and I didn't have a plan B. So, I did what you do best, Mitch—I got drunk. I didn't mean to in the beginning; all I wanted was a few shots to calm my frazzled nerves and fluttering heart. But the more I thought about what you walking away meant, the tighter my chest became, and the harder it was not to cry. So, before I knew it, those few shots turned into five, then into ten, until I was stumbling up to my room. It worked, though—you were right about that; the alcohol really does make you forget. But you never told me it doesn't make you forget _forever_. A few hours later and I was curling into a ball on my bed, crying and hurting and missing you already. All I wanted was to be with you Haymitch, but you just left me here, and I didn't know what to do anymore. It's sad that that was the last time we actually saw one another in person, isn't it?

You avoided me that next day—God, Haymitch, I never meant to hurt you that badly. I tried at first to make it up to you, but after a while I couldn't do it anymore. I hope you understand that now. Your refusal to accept my help hurt me just as badly as my rejection to help in the first place probably hurt you—you thought I chose the Capitol, and I thought you chose your pride. Looks like we're great at picking the wrong sides, huh? At least yours got you out of here, though; mine just got me trapped in a jail cell, constantly thinking about you. Maybe you made the right choice after all.

I don't know what else to write about, Haymitch. The more I add, the more unwilling I am to get to the point—yes; there _is_ a point to this letter. I just don't want to say it—God, do I ever not want to mention it. But I have to, Mitch, even though it'll tear me apart. I can't keep lying to myself—honesty's the only thing they can't take from me; I can choose whether I want to be honest or whether I want to lie. They don't have a say in it, and neither do you, Haymitch. You've had a lot of power over me lately—over my mind, over my heart… Hell, you'll probably still influence me even after this has been sent—I hope this gets to you. I have no idea where you are, but someone in here says they do; they offered to give you this letter, but maybe they'll just give it to Snow. Not that it would be useful in the slightest, because by now he already knows everything that's happened. Either way, I'm willing to risk it.

I love you, Haymitch. I've loved you since that day I marched over to your room just to say hi at seven in the morning, and you answered the door despite your hangover. I love everything about you—from your rugged and unkempt appearance to your closed off personality and mysterious and broken past. Everything that makes you who you are, I adore. But I can't keep living like this, Mitch. I have to be serious with myself now.

You don't love me. You never have, and you never will—by now you've probably forgotten all about me.

I like to think that at some point we were friends—not great ones, but friends nonetheless. Maybe we were, maybe we weren't—there's no question that we're just strangers now. Two strangers with a past—that's what they call it, isn't it? That's what we are, Mitch. And though it's not what I want us to be—God, we could have been so much more; we could have lived together forever, just as in love as Katniss and Peeta—I don't regret loving what we had. I just regret holding onto it for so long.

Haymitch, what I'm trying to say is… God, it kills me to say this, Mitch. You're the one thing that's keeping me alive right now, and here I am, trying to let that go. But I have to, because you deserve to be free of me, and I need to finally let you go. I'll still be in love with you—it's too late to stop; I was head-over-heels that first night. No, I'm not saying I won't care for you anymore; what I'm trying to say is that I'm letting you go. You would have never fallen for me, would you, Haymitch? I'm just a prissy District escort with her head way up in the clouds; I loved and lived for everything you hated, and by the time I changed, it was too late.

So, Haymitch—my dear, sweet Haymitch—this is my farewell to you. I know we'll never see each other again—you're not worried about me; you're not planning ways to break me free. You're not going to be my knight in tattered clothing, storming through the rubble to save me. No, I don't _want_ you to come save me, Mitch—I just want you to be happy. Promise me you'll be happy, alright?

I just… What I'm trying to say is I'm giving up. I'm giving up on finding a way to escape. I'm giving up on my dreams of us becoming an actual _us_. And most of all, I'm giving up on _you_, Haymitch. You're not coming to my rescue, no matter how hard I beg and pray that you will. I've accepted that, Mitch, and I swear I'm not angry at you for it. It's safer for you to stay away.

I wish something had happened between us; I wish I hadn't been so scared to tell you I loved you. Maybe it was for the better, though; if you cared, you would have wound up in here with me, and that wouldn't have made a rebellion happen. I hope you make a change, Mitch—I really, really do. I hope you're happy and okay and proud of all you've accomplished so far; I know I'm proud of you.

Goodbye, Haymitch. Stay safe. Stay alive.

Love,

Effie Trinket, former District 12 escort.'

The pencil slipped from her hands as she gazed at the letter, eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Her shoulders shook and her body shuddered, but she refused to cry.

Straightening her spine, Effie folded the pieces of paper carefully before tucking them safely under her mattress. Her legs shook as she stood up to fetch the pencil. She grabbed it swiftly and forcefully shoved it beside the note, just managing to do so before the next guard came into view. He glanced at her curiously, daring her to do something wrong, but she just stood there quietly, defiantly crossing her arms. She wasn't afraid anymore; they could do whatever they wanted to her now and it wouldn't make a difference.

She was locked in an empty cell, imprisoned by the Capitol. She was tired and sore and eventually going to die, but none of that mattered anymore. Even though it didn't seem like it, Effie was okay—even if she wasn't, she knew she'd be one day.


End file.
